


"I can't make you love me."

by careforacuppatea



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Possibly Unrequited Love, based on song "I can't make you love me" by george michael, i actually hate angst fics but here we are, placed during john and paul's lost weekend, two idiots can't properly communicate feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22413409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/careforacuppatea/pseuds/careforacuppatea
Summary: This is based off of the song, "I can't make you love me," by George Michael, which someone sent to me on Tumblr, claiming it reminded them of John believing his deeper feelings and love for Paul were unrequited.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, McLennon - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	"I can't make you love me."

**_[I can't make you love me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87uGcp9V_IY) _by George Michael**

“I can’t make you love me, if you don’t, Paul,” John said, almost matter of fact, gazing across the room to where Paul stood, tall and rigid, and _beautiful_. When John met Paul’s eyes, they were dark, the look he was receiving was hard, cold as ice.

John had just gotten off the phone with Yoko, they had made up, he was going back-- he _had_ too. 

It felt like oceans, raging and brutal and swirling, were separating him and Paul; and John had to force himself to be okay with that. Self preservation, John had reasoned-– Paul would understand, wouldn’t he?

“You can’t make your heart feel somethin’ it won’t–” 

“John–”

“– _can’t_ , can’t feel, for me,” John could hear the edge to his voice, his raw and dangerously intense feelings bubbling just at the surface. John’s eyes never moved away from Paul, Paul’s body, Paul’s face– watching as Paul bit at the inside of his cheeks, visibly swallow, once, twice; and when Paul licked at his lips, as if preparing to speak, John decided _no more_. He reached up and removed his glasses, eyes squeezing shut as he pinched at the space just between them. John was acquiring a silent migraine– from not sleeping, from stress, from drugs, from alcohol, from Yoko, from heartbreak, from the words _he’s_ saying, tasting like poison and causing the inside of his body to burn in pain, emotional pain– the _worse_ kind. 

And, and from _Paul_. 

John jumped when a hand, a gentle hand, touched his arm and placed itself there, John opening his eyes, squinting to look over at it. A large hand, almost as large as his own, pale with bitten fingernails– a masculine hand, dark hair starting at the wrist and making it’s way down the arm, a stark contrast. A boyish hand, with fingers longer than his only by a bit, slender, elegant. Even without his glasses, even with it being slightly blurry, John still could describe this hand in detail, because it was Paul’s, and John knows him so personally. Why hadn't he heard Paul cut his way through the horrid distance between them?

“John.” The older man turned his face up to meet Paul’s, to meet those hazel eyes which bore into him, and John felt grateful without his glasses, because if he could see clearly, Paul’s gaze would leave John feeling totally stripped naked, vulnerable and quivering, weak, desperate. What happened to the raging oceans between them? 

Paul’s hand gave a light squeeze to John’s bicep, but he might as well have squeezed John’s heart. “ _John_ ,” Paul sounded so small, so… so _terrified_. John heard the 15 year old Macca again, wanting to speak up and say _something_ , but couldn’t. John recalls laughing at him whenever Paul got so worked up like that, teasing the younger for getting so tongue tied, flustered. He couldn’t bring himself to laugh now.

“I’ll close my eyes,” John said, barely above a whisper, despite the fact it was only them two alone in the apartment. Paul’s thumb caressed John’s arm through the thin long sleeve, very subtle of course. John couldn’t help the quirk at the edge of his lips, closing his eyes, and then Paul was moving. 

John dropped his specs in the process of Paul pushing and pulling at John so that he could properly pull the older man into a hug, a hug where their chests met, Paul loosely wrapping his arms about John’s neck, and cradled the back of his head with those large, yet slender and pretty hands of his. 

And for a moment, John didn’t move, arms hovering, body rigid. John kept his eyes shut, not daring to peek. If he couldn’t see at all, then he wouldn’t see the love Paul _didn’t_ have for him, even as the younger held John, gentle yet demanding. 

Paul was the pull, and John was the push. 

_**I will give up this fight.**_

So John did, relinquishing with a heavy, stuttering exhale as he placed his arms around Paul, finally answering the demand. John buried his head in the crook of Paul’s neck and just breathed, breathing as if his lungs haven’t tasted fresh air in decades. He tried to burn the feeling of Paul’s soft hair tickling at his cheeks and nose, tattoo the memory of Paul’s fingers gently petting and playing with the hairs at the base of his skull, moving up through his wild hair, applying just the lightest of pressure while sliding back down. 

John grasped at Paul’s back, and Paul held him closer now, pressed so close they might as well have been trying to meld into each other. 

Yet John still had his eyes shut tight, because he didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to hurt anymore. And because, with his eyes closed, he could _imagine_ feeling the love he had _dreamed_ of Paul having for him, could imagine Paul did love him as he held tight to John and John clung onto Paul. 

The minutes were crumbling away just at their feet, and yet, John was able to have _this_ one, this one last minute.

**Author's Note:**

> If it helps, Paul wanted to finally confront John about their whole relationship, force himself to directly talk to John about it, them. Paul desperately wanted to admit to John, “I do love you, you daft git! I do, I do I do! I love you!” But Paul couldn’t, didn’t know how to.  
> John didn’t know Paul loved him, but Paul did, Paul always loved John. He didn’t mean to hurt John, didn’t mean to do whatever he did to hurt him– to have John think Paul might not love him anymore.


End file.
